


Phil Coulson's Personalized Matchmaking for Clueless Superheroes

by ficlicious



Series: Phil Coulson's Personalized Matchmaking for Clueless Superheroes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, BAMF Steve Rogers, BAMF Tony Stark, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Tony Stark, Identity Porn, Mutual Pining, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Post-Iron Man 2, Rule 63, Steve Rogers Has Issues, The Avengers Are Good Bros, Tony Stark Has Issues, Undercover Missions, serial fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-12-26 05:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12051912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficlicious/pseuds/ficlicious
Summary: Phil has two problems in his life: Toni Stark and Steve Rogers. The first is a brilliant, if erratic, inventor/billionaire who holds a lot of government defense contracts. It's in SHIELD's best interests to keep her happy, but she's spiralling out of control. And now with assassins let loose by someone interested in permanently removing her from the game, it's in SHIELD's best interests to keep her safe, No, she doesn't need a SHIELD goon following her around, thank you. Did SHIELD forget she's Iron Man and can damned well take care of herself?But the second problem he has might solve the first and itself all at the same time. Captain America, displaced supersoldier and man out of time, adrift without direction and searching desperately for familiar ground. If Phil plays his cards right, he can arrange things so Steve latches onto protecting Toni from assassins and herself, and Toni will challenge Steve at every point, creating a depth of involvement that hooks Steve firmly into the present day, instead of being locked in an endless loop of wishing for the past.And if he plays his cardsexactlyright, he can pat himself on the back at the wedding reception.





	1. Prologue: Threat Assessments

It starts like it always does: with his two biggest pain-in-the-ass agents passing vital intel and credible threat assessments Phil can’t ignore.

The very earliest, faintest strains of an oncoming headache begin throbbing across his sinuses as he stares down at the report placed in front of him on his desk. He desperately wants to massage his temples, rub his eyes, scrub at his face until this problem goes away, but he refuses to do that. He refuses to let Barton and Romanoff know how very, very tired he is of them finding the most unique and interesting problems to dump into his lap.

They don’t get to win on his watch. They haven’t earned the satisfaction.

So instead of doing any of the things he so badly wants to do, he folds his hands on the desk in front of him, quirks a skeptical eyebrow at the pair standing quietly on the other side of his desk, and says, “Stark has about a dozen death threats against her. She collects them like trading cards. What makes this one different?”

Barton clears his throat, and his expression shifts into that angelic schoolboy look Phil finds more suspicious than Barton’s normal shit-eating grin. “Well, sir,” he starts, and his eyes flick to Romanoff’s for a moment before focusing back on Phil. “We’ve reliably confirmed that sources outside Stark Industries have come into possession of documents that detail her security arrangements and personal schedules for the next six months.”

Phil never trusts Romanoff’s expressions, because she’s got the best poker face he’s ever seen. He’s built his career on being able to read people’s smallest microexpressions, but Romanoff’s mostly neutral, mildly irritated default death stare is flawless. “Whether she wants to admit it or not, Stark’s a SHIELD asset, and we can’t take the risk that unknown parties could take her out or co-opt her.”

He skimmed the report before they arrived for their debrief, so it’s easy to keep the surprise and concern from showing on his face. He sighs through his nose and closes the open file, then turns his chair to lean back in it and thread his fingers together, elbows on the armrests. “You sound like you’re advocating to assassinate her ourselves, Romanoff.”

He’s inwardly delighted when Romanoff blinks. “No,” she says, and is that a note of uncertainty he’s detecting in her voice? It just might be. “No, sir. Not at all. Just pointing out the potential losses if this intel isn’t taken seriously. When I was undercover in Stark’s company last year--”

“Which you made a fucking mess of doing, I’d like to add,” Barton interjects cheerfully. 

Romanoff narrows her eyes, side-eyes Barton and hisses, “Shut your mouth if you value your tongue.”

"You seem to value it too, if I'm not mistaken," Barton continues, gracefully ducking out of the way of Romanoff's backhanded swipe, but coming into range for her sneak attack from behind. "Ow! Hey!"

“Enough,” Coulson says, lets some of his amusement show, mostly because he can’t hold it all in out of sight. “Let’s assume the threat is credible, and critical. What are your recommendations?”

“Undercover, round-the-clock protection,” Romanoff says promptly, fixing Phil with the sort of stare he finds unsettling. “The best we have. Stark’s safety is a matter of national security, no matter what way you look at it. She’s a SHIELD consultant, her company holds government contracts, and she built a working suit of power armor out of a box of scraps in a cave in the middle of nowhere.”

Phil considers, steeples his fingers and slowly rotates his chair so he’s sitting straight behind the desk again. As much as it pains him to admit it, the best of SHIELD is standing in front of him, but he’s not getting the usual vibe that emanates from agents looking for high priority protection details. “Are you asking for the assignment, Romanoff?”

Romanoff’s face does… something. On a normal person, Phil might label the fleeting expression as  _ regret.  _ “No, sir,” she says. “As Clint pointed out, I made a few errors in judgment during my undercover assignment at SI. I don’t think Toni’d welcome me back any time soon. I’m very good, Agent Coulson, but I can’t protect someone trying to actively run away from me.”

Barton leans forward, beaming. “I’ll do it. Where do I sign up?”

Romanoff yanks him back, lets go as he yelps and flails to keep his footing, which he does after some very fancy footwork that impresses even Phil. “Agent Barton’s idea of protecting Stark will be to keep her in bed,” Romanoff says, tucking her hand behind her back again and ignoring Barton’s dirty look. “It might have been effective on past ops, but his personal training regimen has been slacking and I doubt he has the stamina to keep up with Stark in the sack.”

“I hate you,” Barton says sincerely, with another look of absolute filth at Romanoff. “I hate you so much.”

Phil sighs quietly, but doesn’t miss the amused quirk of Romanoff’s mouth, and finds himself smiling faintly in return. “Who would you recommend in your place, Romanoff?”

“May, sir,” she replies promptly. “Carter, maybe. Stark and she have good history. Ward, if she wouldn’t eat him alive on day one. Ogawa’s good, and so is Kimball.”

Phil tries to picture assigning Melinda May to Toni Stark’s protection detail and fails to come up with any scenario that doesn’t result in blood and bodies and a smoking crater where Manhattan used to be. He represses his instinctive shudder. “I’ll take it under consideration,” he says, rests his hand on top of the folder pensively. “Is there anything else I should know about your recent assignment before your official debriefing this afternoon?”

“No sir,” Barton and Romanoff say in perfect unison.

Phil eyes them both speculatively, because that’s about as suspicious as it gets in his books, especially where these two are concerned. But he decides to let it go, in the interest of actually finding half an hour to eat a proper lunch today. “I’ll see you this afternoon in the war room then,” he says, nods to each of them. “You’re dismissed.”

He doesn’t pay attention to Barton and Romanoff’s squabbling as they leave his office, and he only looks up to make sure they closed the door behind them as they exit. Best of the best needed, and the two best have taken themselves out of consideration. Hmm.

It’s gut instinct, but he reaches into his desk, turns the key in the lock of the hidden panel he keeps secured at all times inside his tie drawer, and pulls out two manila folders stamped EYES ONLY in 72-point font. Sets them side by side, just under the threat assessment Barton and Romanoff compiled. 

Sits and stares at all three folders for a long time, pensively.

Two problems. Toni Stark. Steve Rogers. 

If Phil plays his cards right, Rogers just might take interest in protecting the daughter of a man who had been at the very least an acquaintance of his. And Phil wishes Stark all the luck in the world trying to outstubborn a man who is the orneriest sonofabitch Phil’s ever had the pleasure to meet. 

He makes a note in his personal planner to schedule a psych eval at the earliest opportunity, because there’s no way this doesn’t end in tragedy and body counts. But the more he thinks about it, the more he likes it. 

In a tiny, distant part of his mind, where his headcanon lives, where both Iron Man and Captain America have shrines set up in their honor, he thinks that maybe, if he plays his cards  _ exactly  _ right, he’ll be able to pat himself on the back at their wedding reception.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil’s first appointment is with Toni Stark, bright and early Monday morning.

He pulls Lola into the empty spot marked with the SHIELD logo in the company parking lot. He exits and cranes his neck to stare up, up, up at the towering heights of the SI building.  Toni Stark is not likely to be anything but sour and surly this hour of the day. Phil debates whether or not to start revising the entire day’s plans, and makes a mental note to send Maria a memo strongly suggesting she take the recommended organizational courses at the Triskelion before she touches his schedule again.

He squints up at the building again, grimacing at the glare of sunrise off the multitudinous panes of glass making up most of the structure’s exterior. He sighs, squares his shoulders, adjusts the button holding his jacket closed over his waist, and reaches back into Lola to collect the sealed file folder sitting on her passenger seat.

Walking away, he thumbs the button for Lola's security system, tilting his head at the resulting clatter-whine from straining servos as her top goes up. She's been doing that more frequently, he thinks as he pockets his keys. Phil makes a mental note to see how many favors he can call in to get the mechanics in the SHIELD garages to put her at the head of the servicing queue.

But first, he has to beard the dragon in her den. With that cheerful thought, he adjusts his tie and steps into the gleaming, broad lobby of Stark Tower a moment after the uniformed doorman pulls the glass and chrome door open for him.

\----

Phil has come ready for a lengthy stay in the waiting room, even gone through the trouble of renaming his current guilty-pleasure reading project from _Guarding Her Body_ to _SHIELD Special Operations Guidelines and Protocols, vol XVII_ on his tablet’s home-screen.

To his surprise, as he's about to plant himself in a comfy armchair and settle in for the long haul, Stark's secretary — a new one since his last visit, and very, very pretty — smiles at him and says, “You can go right in, Agent Coulson. Toni’s expecting you.”

With a mild tinge of regret, he tucks his tablet back into his jacket's inner pocket and straightens again. “Thank you, Paula,” he says, taking a quick peek at the brass nameplate on her desk. He glances at the closed doors leading to the inner office and hesitates a moment. “I don't suppose you can give me any hint as to her mood this morning?”

Paula's smile widens. “She hasn't beheaded anyone yet this week. I'd take that as a good sign.”

He feels almost obligated to point out the obvious. “It's Monday morning.”

“Best to think positively then,” Paula replies in sympathy. “Straight through the doors there, Agent Coulson. Coffee is to your right.”

Phil smiles. “Are you suggesting I bring her a peace offering?”

“She places high value on the bringers of caffeine,” Paula replies, and the corners of her eyes crinkle in amusement. “You should see the disgustingly large salaries the workers in the cafe on Forty-Six receive. Coffee will _definitely_ put you on better footing.”

With that, she turns back to her desk to answer the ringing phone with a crisp, “Dr. Stark's office”, leaving Phil to contemplate the coffee cart next to the door. If he remembers correctly, Toni takes extra white, extra sweet, so he carefully fixes her a cup, then one for himself, and juggles them in order to open the doors.

Toni isn't seated at her desk, or standing at the holo display center, like he expected her to be. Instead, she's standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaning against the glass with one shoulder, arms crossed over her chest. She’s looking out and down, eyes fixed on something beyond the tower. “What can Stark Industries do for SHIELD this morning, Coulson?”

As greetings go, it’s not the worst one Phil’s ever gotten from her. He makes his way across the office, setting her cup carefully on her desk. “Good morning, Dr. Stark. Coffee?”

Her attention abruptly focuses on him, and Phil smiles inwardly. He should send Paula flowers for the tip. “You brought me coffee.”

“I did,” Phil says, sits in the chair in front of Toni’s desk, and takes a sip of his own. He immediately has to fight not to let any number of filthy moans out of his mouth when the flavor bursts across his tongue. He should have known Toni would have orgasmic coffee in her private office. It’s difficult, but he manages to hold them all in. “This is good,” he says, proud at how mildly polite his tone comes out, and takes another sip.

For some reason, Toni’s got an eyebrow up and a grin playing around the corners of her mouth. “Yeah,” she says, pushes herself off the window with her shoulder and moves to her chair to sit. “That’s one way to put it. You didn’t answer my question though. What do you want?”

Phil waits until Toni’s wrapped her hand around the cup and taken a long swallow before answering, not the least because it gives him time to take another sip of his own. He’d ask how much the coffee costs, but he’s a little afraid of the answer. “SHIELD has credible intel that outlines a serious threat to your well-being, Toni. I’ve come to brief you on the details and try to come to some arrangements for your security.”

He’s expecting her to laugh it off, he’s expecting yelling, he’s expecting anything but a thoughtful look and for her to turn back to the window. “That’s a hover-capable ‘62 Corvette down there.”

He blinks, but recovers quickly. “Lola,” he says, figuring he’ll at least follow this line of conversation and see if it turns up anything beneficial. “Fully restored.”

Toni looks back to him, watches him steadily over the rim of her coffee cup as she takes a long gulp. “How’s she running?”

“Purrs like a kitten,” Phil replies, frowns a little as he recalls the distressed noise she made when he turned her security system on. Inspiration blooms, fights with Phil’s protective knee-jerk reaction, and wins. It’s calculated, a gamble, but Phil’s pretty sure he’s got the read right. Toni isn’t a businesswoman at heart. She’s a mechanic. There’s only one of Lola in the world, and there’s proprietary Starktech under her hood. This might just be a little like dangling candy in front of a baby. “Actually, while I’m here, can I ask a personal favor?”

Toni’s eyebrows go up. “You have my full attention.”

He wonders if anyone’s ever had Toni’s full attention before. He feels a little honored. “She’s making noises lately. I’m a little concerned about them. Maybe while I’m here, you could take a look?”

Toni’s eyes don’t quite light up like a Christmas tree, but they come pretty damned close. “I think I can find some time,” she drawls, leans back in her chair, drums her fingers against the armrest. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, though. You’re a cagey bastard, Phil.”

“Thank you,” he says modestly.

Toni actually laughs a little, faint and delighted. “Of course you’d take that as a compliment. Go bring her around to the side bay doors marked _Vehicles_. I’ll call down and have Rhoda let you through. She’ll direct you from there. I’ll change and meet you in the shop in ten.”

He smiles, drains his cup, mourns its emptiness. “May I brief you on the security threats while you work?”

She tilts her head, still smiling. “And if I say no?”

Phil _knows_ he’s got her hooked now. Coffee, Lola… Was it always this simple and he just never thought of it? “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to go on my way,” he says, regretfully. “Other meetings to attend and all. I’ll have to take Lola to the Triskelion. The SHIELD mechanics are good. Not as good as you, of course, but with what’s powering her…” He trails off, keeps from grinning in triumph when she scoffs.

“Cagey bastard,” Toni says, amused and accusatory, and tosses back the rest of her coffee. “Sure. No promises, but talk yourself blue while I work. I won’t mind the noise.”

**\-----**

He isn’t sure how much actually got through to Toni or how seriously she took it, but he considers the meeting a wild success regardless. Phil spent the better part of two hours talking to her denim-clad legs and backside as she tinkered, diagnosed, cleaned and tweaked Lola’s innards, barely seeing her face at all. But she agreed to at least _think_ about a bodyguard detail.

He’s careful driving out of the building, wouldn’t do to dent the shine to which Toni’s bots buffed his baby girl, hands at ten and two on the wheel. This is a big step forward in his relationship with Toni Stark; he’s painfully aware of how awry it can go with absolutely no forewarning. Phil has to carefully consider his options lest he drive her right back into avoiding his phone calls, yelling at him, or trying to have security remove him.

On the bright side, he has a week before he’s due back to let Toni convert Lola’s engine to accept reactor tech in place of Howard Stark’s brilliant-but-antique systems. Plenty of time to figure out how to tiptoe around this particular caffeine-fuelled minefield.

And speaking of minefields, Phil turns his attention to preparing for his second appointment of the day, which is with Captain Steven G. Rogers, currently adjusting to the 21st century in a suite at the Triskelion.

**oOoOoOo**

His phone rings just after he swipes his access card through the reader on the secured elevator leading down to the long-term residency floors. He sighs faintly, because he really doesn’t have time to take a call, but it’s his personal phone, and of the handful of people to whom he’s given the number, he can’t think of one that wouldn’t constitute a priority call. He pulls it from his pocket as the ringtone sounds again, tilts it so he can see the caller ID.

_V. Potts._

He finds himself smiling and swiping to answer the call before making a conscious decision to do so. “Coulson,” he says, his customary salutation, ignores the nervous flutter in his stomach and eyes the elevator doors as they open silently in front of him.

“Hello Phil,” Pepper’s voice curls from the phone to his ear, warm and amused and smoky. “I hear you visited us today. I didn’t warrant a stop?”

He glances at his watch, eyes the elevator doors again. There’s no cell reception in it, he knows from personal experience. To hell with it. The elevator isn’t the only way down, and he skipped his customary cardio today.

He turns his back to the elevator as the doors close again, and walks a few paces back down the hall towards the stairs. “My appointment was early, Ms. Potts,” he says, swipes through the security door and starts down the first of twenty flights. “I didn’t think you’d be in your office at the crack of dawn.”

Pepper’s laugh reminds him of Toni’s coffee, because like Toni’s coffee, it’s something he wouldn’t mind experiencing more often. “Phil, do you know nothing about me? My office contains more of my belongings than my apartment. I’m always there.”

“Then please accept my sincere apologies, Ms. Potts,” he says. “Next time, I’ll make it a point to stop in and say hello before I leave the building.”

“I’d appreciate it,” she replies.

Eight flights, nine. He’s got about ten flights left to finish the conversation and wipe what he’s sure is a sappy smile off his face. His standards do not include walking into a meeting with one of his personal heroes like a college kid with a crush. “Was there something you needed, Ms. Potts? I’m on my way to a meeting, but--”

“Oh,” Pepper says airily, “I won’t keep you. I just know you had a meeting with Toni this morning and she was in a remarkably good mood all day afterward. Best mood I’ve seen in awhile. I was calling to see if you were still alive, because for a little while there I was afraid she’d thrown you out of her office window.”

Phil chuckles, pauses on the twelfth landing. To talk to Pepper, he tells himself, _not_ to catch his breath. “I asked her to check a mechanical problem I was having with Lola,” he says. “She got a chance to tinker with her father’s tech, I got a chance to talk without interruption. Win win for both of us.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Pepper asks, “Anything I should know about?”

Phil pauses, considers. In hindsight, perhaps he should have gone to Pepper first, or at least visited before he left Stark Tower. “Yes,” he says finally. “Not over the phone.” He swallows to wet his suddenly dry throat and adds, “Can I interest you in dinner to talk about it?”

“Pick me up at eight,” Pepper replies, and there’s a hint of something, a catch, a tinge of breathiness, in her voice. “I’ll make reservations.”

“See you tonight then,” Phil says, and the call is ended before he registers either of their farewells. Before he can more than process that he has a date, he shoves it all firmly to the back of his mind and locks it down. As much as he’d like to sit and marvel at this new twist of events, try to trace exactly how it happened at all, he really does have to get to that meeting.

He pockets his phone, takes a moment to compose and recenter himself, then resolutely begins heading down the stairs again.


	3. Interlude: Steve

From the moment he wakes, he’s engulfed in chaos and cacophony. The 21st century is noisy and dissonant, with blaring horns and bright, glaring lights everywhere he turns. The air tastes different too, dense and sick, and for a couple of days he thinks his asthma might be returning.

He doesn’t sleep at first, paces restlessly around his room until he could walk through with his eyes closed uninjured, and lays on his narrow, firm cot to stare hollow-eyed and blank at the ceiling when daylight breaks wan and pale against the walls. The serum keeps him going on bare minimum, does what it was designed to do, but it’s not foolproof and it’s not without limit.

When he finally does fall asleep, driven past even the tolerances of a supersoldier, he invariably bolts awake far too soon, cold and heavy and terrified he’s still underwater.

Sometimes, Steve wonders if he actually came out of the ice at all.

People wander in and out of his awareness, and eventually he starts recognizing faces as his body and senses finally begin the process of adjusting to the clamor and clang. He talks to some, answers questions, makes simple requests for books and writing materials when he feels like conversing.

Someone remembers Steve is an artist, he knows because they tell him. And they give him paper. Lots and lots of paper, finer and smoother than any kind he’s ever had in his hands. Pencils too, and pens, and all sorts of drawing media he’s absolutely flabbergasted to even realize exists. He doesn’t know what to do with most of it, isn’t sure why he needs six different kinds of erasers and God Almighty, the colors they have in the 21st century. Boxes and boxes, markers and pencils and paints piling up in his room, a wealth of supplies unheard of in his day.

He tries to make use of them, conscious of the value of the gifts he’s been given, but he’s paralyzed by the choices every time he tries to adapt. He stays with what he knows. Graphite and charcoal. Pastel chalks and his fingers to smudge. He has a whole box full of funny little white paper roll-sticks that are supposed to do that for him, keep his hands clean, but try as he might, he can’t figure out how the hell he’s supposed to use them, and he’s too embarrassed to ask.

He doesn’t mind pencil and charcoal on his skin anyway. It reminds him of better times. It reminds him to be careful and take his time lest he ruin his work, which is a lesson he thinks the world forgot somewhere along the way.

He wakes sometimes in the middle of the night, unable to remember his dreams but shaking and drenched in cold fear-sweat, with the darkness pressing in around him until he can’t bear to not turn the light on. He fills sketchbook after sketchbook with the faces of the men and women he knew, faces he desperately, almost manically, puts down on the pages with as much detail as he can, terrified he’s going to forget them all.

He adheres the ones he likes best to his wall, pulling blue sticky tack out of a package and carefully flattening it to hold the sketches up. His mother, Peggy. Bucky. Jim Morita, Dum Dum Duggan. Izzy Cohen. All the Howling Commandos. Erskine. Places, people, things. The way everything used to be, the only way it’s ever made sense to him.

He has a bodyguard. He has a therapist. He has a physician. A handler. Someone who does his laundry. Someone who brings him food. Cleans his room. Darns his socks, for all he knows. He wishes they would all go away and leave him alone.

He roams the corridors and common areas restlessly, looking for solitude and peace. Looking for something familiar in this strange, alien world of light and sound and machines and color, finding nothing but disconnection and noise no matter where he goes. He’s hounded by it, surrounded by it, drowning in it.

When he stumbles quite by accident into a tiny but serviceable chapel on a day he’s lost track of counting, he thinks he might shed a few tears of relief. He can't move for a long time, and remains standing in the doorway, hand white-knuckled in a death grip on the knob, convulsively swallowing down painful lumps of emotion until he feels like he can finally breathe again.

As soon as he feels ready to use his legs again, he turns and dips his fingers in the font of holy water mounted on the wall beside the door and blesses himself, then moves to the first pew before the small altar and settles onto the hard wooden seat. He lays his sketchbook and pencil box aside and reaches down to carefully drop the kneeler to the floor. He inches forward until he’s kneeling on it, settles his elbows onto the padded support and bows his head behind his clasped hands.

He doesn’t pray, he doesn’t have the mental coherence right now to frame anything that formal. He doesn’t think God will particularly mind. He’s fairly sure the Almighty will suss out his relief and gratitude no matter how ineloquently he’s expressing it. He can feel the tension draining out of his shoulders, feel that horrible, terrible burden lessening from his body. Finally feels something akin to a connection in this waking nightmare he’s found himself in.

Finally hears silence in his own head, uncrowded by confusion and fear and grief and rage.

It takes him a long time to realize that he’s alone, finally alone, his ever-present shadow nowhere to be seen. He frowns and looks back at the partly-open door, sees the agent assigned to him today standing against the far wall, staring down at his cell phone. He’s confused anew by it, because he hasn’t been more than five feet from his guards before, but it eventually dawns on him that religious observances must be held to a different standard, shown a different respect.

Oddly, it makes him feel just a little bit better about the modern world. He recognizes a tiny part of it now, he has something he can latch onto and hold tight when the chaos threatens to sweep him under. This, at least, is unchanged and untouched by time.

He returns day after day, finding his way through the twisting labyrinth of the Triskelion’s corridors in the middle of the night, early in the morning, sometimes several times in the course of a few hours. He never stays very long, usually just long enough to clear his head and sit in silence and solitude, but finds his feet bringing him back again and again.

His stays in the chapel grow longer, and he spends the time between his customary prayer and his eventual departure with his sketchbook in his lap, humming hymns and detailing faces and locations in dark, thick, smudged lines. Sometimes there are other people when he arrives, kneeling or sitting in silence, and he always tenses up, unhappy and disquieted, until he’s certain they’re not there for any reason but their own.

He’s not sure if this is behaviour his therapist would call “health-oriented” or “survival-oriented”. He’s not sure he really cares about the difference right now. All he knows is that it’s helping him find some sort of path through hell, and he isn’t going to give it up any time soon.

He learns about Toni Stark purely by accident, but can’t get the name out of his mind once it’s gotten a toehold into his thoughts. Howard Stark hadn’t been a close friend -- he’d barely known the guy, if he’s being honest -- but he’s something Steve can grab onto, clutch like a lifeline to his past. Toni’s been raised by people he knows. Knew. People he _knew_. Maybe Toni can help him bridge the past and the present in a way that makes more sense to his poor, addled brain.

He doesn’t know how to ask, or even who he’d approach with the request, but fate takes mercy on him for once, and introduces him to Agent Phil Coulson not long after.


End file.
